Greenwich by Howard Fast Page B

on his desk and took out a cigar.
    â€œDo you want one?” he asked Curtis.
    â€œI’d like a shot of scotch.”
    Drummond went to the bar at one side of the room. It had been built as an eighteenth-century highboy, a fine reproduction and a handsome piece. He poured bourbon for himself and scotch for Curtis.
    â€œStraight or with ice?”
    â€œStraight.”
    Curtis swallowed it like water. Drummond sipped the bourbon while he cut the end of the cigar. “Curt,” he said, “we’re both of us older than we ever expected to be. There are just a few things in life that remain viable, and a Cuban Cohiba and good bourbon are two of them.”
    The British bulldog stirred.
    Curtis sighed and said, “How did you ever come to pick Larry?”
    â€œHe looked like a congressman,” Drummond said.
    â€œHe’s a psychopath.”
    â€œMaybe. But that can be an advantage in his line of work. He started out as a sheriff in a small southern town. Killed a couple of bank robbers, and it gave him a charge. Then he shot a nigger. The man was unarmed, but snotty. Larry enjoyed it. I needed a congressman, and I picked Larry and gave him a short course in civil rights. I think he has a law degree. He’s a thug, but he’s obedient. Like that bulldog.”
    He snapped his fingers, and the bulldog waddled over to him.

Nine
    D avid Greene bought a bottle of Italian Chianti for six dollars and seventy-five cents. Nellie warmed the soup and broke up a loaf of hot French bread, which David used to wipe up the last bit of soup in his plate. It was good soup, a mixture of beans and lentils and carrots and celery. When they had finished, with just an inch or so of wine left in the bottle, David leaned back and grinned. Nellie smiled at him.
    â€œWhen you smile,” David said, “you’re very beautiful.”
    â€œThat’s nonsense. I was born gawky and I remained that way.”
    â€œI feel too good to argue, and just to see you smile is enough. You want to tell me about your rotten day?”
    â€œIf you want to hear about it?”
    â€œYes, I do.”
    She cleared the table as she spoke, the sink, stove, and refrigerator lined up at one end of what was dining room and kitchen. The rest of the room contained a futon and a couple of chairs.
    â€œI’ll wash the dishes,” David offered.
    Running the hot water over the dishes, she said, “Later.” She dried her hands and sprawled out on the futon. “God, I’m tired, Davey. After this summer, it’s your last year, isn’t it?”
    â€œLast year. And I’ll make it home every weekend.”
    â€œYou’re obsessed.”
    â€œSure I am.” He sprawled out on one of the two easy chairs, kicked off his shoes. “Obsessed, stricken, or whatever—I’m in love with you. Tell me about today.”
    â€œIt’s grisly.”
    â€œWell, that’s what you do, grisly.”
    â€œDo you know what a coronary-artery bypass graft is?”
    â€œSort of.”
    â€œWell, it’s a rather desperate way of dealing with a heart that is giving out for want of oxygen-carrying blood. This time the patient was Dr. Seth Ferguson.”
    David nodded. “I hope it went well.”
    â€œNo, it didn’t go well. It’s a complex operation. The surgeon begins by removing sections of the large leg veins, and they’re set aside to be used for the grafting. It takes hours, but I’ll make it short. An incision is made through the breastbone, and the chest is opened, exposing the heart. Then the heart must be stopped and its temperature reduced while you switch the circulation to a heart-lung machine. I won’t go into all the details, except to tell you that the leg veins are used to replace the blocked arteries, sutured, and then the heart is warmed and given a gentle electric shock to start it again. Then the chest is closed. It’s a team thing and